“It was late on an Autumn afternoon, the maples and oaks were glowing orange and red, and I couldn’t take my eyes off Overlook Mountain and the rolling terrain,” Levon Helm wrote in his 1993 autobiography, of the moment in 1967 when he first arrived here. “From that first day, the Catskills reminded me of the Ozarks and the Arkansas hill country. I had a shock of recognition. Going to Woodstock felt like going home.”

And it felt natural and right having you here, too, Levon. It’s a little late to tell you that, now, but Woodstock did make its feelings known about you when you were given the key to the town on Levon Helm Day, or when we would come to the Rambles or flock to the Village Green or Gill Farms when you performed there. The love was mutual.